


Snips & Snails & Tiger Tails

by blinkingsandbeepings (asimaiyat)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Ficlets, Humor, It Came From Tumblr, Kink, M/M, Suicide, assorted ficlets, feels out of fucking nowhere, mormor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 17:00:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 2,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asimaiyat/pseuds/blinkingsandbeepings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of the various MorMor ficlets I've written on tumblr. There's some fluff and some angst and some smut in here; I've tried to use the chapter titles to clue you in so you don't get blindsided by, like, surprise porn or surprise misery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Melting Points [kink drabble]

By now Seb's been tied down for hours, and Jim's filled half a Moleskine with notes on the effects of five types of hot wax in order of melting point. They're on beeswax now, and it smells pleasant but stings so brightly that Seb's afraid his skin might actually be on fire. As the hot trickle runs down into the bowl of his pelvis, adrenaline spikes in his brain, bringing the moment into laser focus, lighting up his brain with the rush of danger. His vision whites out as the flame moves lower.

(written in someone's askbox)


	2. Mischief Night [humor/fluff]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt "First Halloween together"

“C’mon, boss, it’s Mischief Night! It’ll be fun.” Seb was unloading cartons of eggs and rolls of TP from a reusable grocery tote.

“I don’t do ‘mischief,’ Tiger. I do mayhem, chaos, I suppose you could say terror… mischief is a bit downmarket from my tastes.”

“What about when you were a kid? You must have pulled some jokes at some point.”

“Yes, well, they usually ended with something being on fire. Don’t think that’s exactly what you had in mind.”

Sebastian grinned. “I think you’re forgetting how well I know you.” He carefully hefted the next bag and set it down on the kitchen island, where a loose cherry bomb spilled out and rolled across the counter. Jim’s eyes followed it like a cat watching a feather.

“Alright, if you’re going to be a nuisance about it, I’ll be ready to go in twenty.”


	3. A Little Mussed [porn]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little after-work relaxation.

The bar was totally cleared out.

That’ll happen when you bring a Kalashnikov to a knife fight.

A couple of broken bottles littered the floor here and there, but considering the circumstances, it was a fairly neat scene. _Jim’ll be pleased._

“Oh, I am.”

“How the bloody hell do you do that?”

“I can read you like a book, Tiger.” Jim let the door swing closed behind him as he sashayed in. “I know what you’re thinking, what you’re going to do next.”

“You do, do you, boss?” Seb grinned. He was leaning against the bar, keeping his weight in his feet, ready to move at any moment.

“I do,” Jim practically purred as he crossed to where Seb was standing. “And I encourage it greatly.”

As soon as Moriarty was in reach Seb had him bent over a bar stool, one broad palm holding the small of his back steady while the smaller man struggled indignantly, even though he’d just fucking said that he knew what Sebastian was going to do.

“Careful, God, I just got these dry cleaned —”

Sebastian managed to get Jim out of his trousers while holding him down on the bar stool that was just a little too high for him to bend over comfortably. For all his great concern about keeping his trousers clean, apparently he wasn’t bothered enough to wear pants under them.

He bent low over Jim’s back, steadying himself with his other hand braced against the bar, as he began to roughly open him up.

“How long were you watching?”

“The whole time, obviousl —”

Seb added another finger, bringing the total up to three, and pushed in hard. “I have cracked ribs, you arsehole! Bastard hit me with a fucking chair!”

“I — I saw,” Jim stuttered. At some point he’d stopped struggling and started squirming back against Seb’s fingers. “So — so pretty when you’re a little mussed.”

Sebastian had to laugh a little at that, cracked ribs or not. He opened his own trousers as efficiently as he could and grabbed Jim by the shoulder right where it met his neck, still holding him in place, Jim’s hips rocking a little desperately against the cracked leather seat.

“Could say the same for you, Boss,” he muttered under his breath as he drove in.


	4. Up The Wolves [silly comic doodle]




	5. Eating is Boring [fluff]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five-sentence fic for the prompt "Sebastian makes Jim eat something."

“But eating is boring.”

“Boss, you know who you sound like when you say shit like that.”

“I do not sound anything like that pretentious, uptight, do-gooding —”

“Oh yeah? Then how’d you know who I was talking about?”

“Fuck you with a bloody chainsaw.” A long-suffering sigh. “Yes, well, if you insist, i suppose Thai would be nice.”


	6. Role Reversal [angsty/sexy]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five-sentence ficlet for the prompt "role reversal."

Jim rolled into the loft with as much swagger as he could muster considering his various injuries. Before he could get past the entryway, he was pressed back against the wall, his hands forced to his sides.

“What the fuck happened here, Boss?” Sebastian’s voice growled in his ear.

“It was a setup — predictable really — have I mentioned the Serbian Brotherhood don’t like me?” Jim panted as Sebastian roughly pushed aside his already-ruined suit to examine his wounds up close.

“Maybe you’ve forgotten this, boss, but _I’m_ supposed to be the one who gets hurt.”


	7. Disgust [angst]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An answer to the question "how do Mormor shippers reconcile love with hatred and disgust?"

Some people think mankind can keep improving forever, that we’ll get better and better until we can’t even remember the sordid animal urges that once drove us.

Some people are wrong. Jim was smarter than anyone he’d ever known, educated to the greatest heights that civilization could offer, nurtured by a city unrivaled in cultural heritage. He was capable of appreciating l’art pour l’art, without the sentimental taboos that held so many others back. And yet, he was still so very human.

He lay awake in bed, trying not to twitch and struggle against Sebastian’s arms wrapped around him. This man, not so different from any other, brought him down to the level of the apes. He wrung out Jim’s base need to claim, to possess, to sink in his teeth and draw blood. His attachment, his need to protect, to rip apart anyone who touched what was his, regardless of the consequences to himself. His desire to lose himself in physical sensation, no games or tricks about it, just sweat and skin and hearts pounding hard in close proximity.

Afterwards Seb would curl around him, holding him loosely in his arms, and fall asleep, and Jim would just exist there, sweaty and sticky and exposed, hating him almost as much as he hated himself.


	8. Conjugal Visit [angsty porn]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5-sentence fic for the prompt "conjugal visit."

Jim straddles Sebastian’s hips, holding him down against the hard little cot. He takes more time than is necessary to catalog his husband’s body with his eyes, drinking in the golden tan at the tops of his shoulders, the sharp outlines of his muscles, the darkness below his eyes.

Seb bucks beneath him, unwilling to be teased, rutting his cock between Jim’s legs and taking whatever friction he can get; his eyes are icy as they stare up into Jim’s, as cold and unyielding as the steel pallet his back is braced against. Jim knows that Sebastian blames him for all this, and he’s not all wrong: it was a sacrifice that Jim hadn’t wanted to make, but in the end letting him take the fall had been the best rotten option he had, and he’d known that his loyal Tiger would — one day — forgive him.

After he’s slithered down the cot — drawing a growl of frustration — to get his mouth on Seb’s cock and begin teasing in earnest, he nuzzles his face into the musky hollow of his husband’s hip and murmurs, too quietly to be heard, “no one’s going to stop me getting you out of here.”


	9. The Devil Worshipper's Tale [BDSM]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian is willing to let everything else go.

The slow acid burn of fatigue is starting to overtake his muscles, but the idea of moving is unthinkable. He’s where he needs to be, on his knees, prostrate on the Persian rug with his arms laid out and shackled in front of him, existing in anticipation until his Master decides to give him something to focus his attention on. Floating, rising like smoke after everything else has been burned away.

The soft sound of footsteps on the rug becomes his world, pacing around his head, along the length of his arms. He hears his Master pause, shift his weight.

The cool leather sole of an Oxford shoe comes to rest lightly on top of his right hand. His fingers flex and freeze, his breathing shallow, heartbeat slowing.

“You’d let me destroy you,” his Master says softly, curiously, like he’s turning it over in his head.

“I’d beg you to, Master,” he says, his voice coming out rough. It hurts to say it because saying it makes it true, an oath signed in blood. He’d beg to exist like this forever, to have everything else taken away. It’s not like he’s anything to anyone else anyway. The rest of the world knows him as a force of destruction, a source of loss. Here, all he does is serve. As a place for his story to end, it’s strangely comforting. “And… you’re going to. Someday. Master.”

The toe of the shoe traces down the sinews of his arm down to his throat, to his jawline, and tucks under his chin to lift his head just a little, enough that he can look up into his Master’s endlessly dark eyes.

“Someday,” Jim replies absently, like he’s starting to lose interest. “Not today.”


	10. In Which Jim Gets Some Culture [humor/fluff]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "take Jim and Sebastian to an art museum."

Jim had turned down Sebastian’s last ten attempts to distract him from the project that was currently making him nearly impossible to live with. Sex didn’t work. Violent movies didn’t work. Getting fitted for new suits was, amazingly, rejected. Finally, in desperation on a slow Sunday morning filled with mumbled swearing and chain-smoking, he grabbed Jim with one hand and Jim’s mobile with the other, slipped the latter into his own cargo pocket, and maneuvered them both over to the door. “Alright, boss, we’re having a date to the Tate Modern. My mum always said a little culture’ll do you a world of good.”

Jim muttered curses and death threats all the way there, but once Sebastian found him a Damien Hirst retrospective, he became very quiet. He tilted his head this way and that at the sculptures and installations, standing almost completely still, with only his fingers twitching the slightest bit.

Eventually he started murmuring again, under his breath, something about the perfection of death, the banal mess of life recontextualized into a transcendent moment of… at some point Seb stopped listening to the words and just watched the way his eyes and lips moved, the way something deep inside him just lit up amidst all this fake squalor and destruction.

“Sebastian?” he practically whispered.

“Yes, Boss?”

“I think I’m in love.”

“Oh, well, Boss, that’s flattering, but —”

“Not with you, idiot. With _Damien_. Do you think if I kidnapped him I could make him love me?”

Sebastian took a second to think of a workable answer. “I don’t know, boss. You know artists, they need to work under very particular conditions. Probably wouldn’t do to interrupt his routine.”

Jim frowned at that, furrowed his brow, and nodded slowly.

When Sebastian came home the next evening to find a bisected Great White shark suspended in a tank in the foyer, he forced himself not to say a word about it.


	11. Exceptions [angst, mild smut]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim doesn't do relationships.

When Jim was 13, everyone had hated him, except for this one wide-eyed little muppet who thought he was soooooo clever and followed him around wanting to be friends.

He killed the little shit. He didn’t do “friends.”

That was how it had been from then on. Jim used people when they were useful, got rid of them when they weren’t. Anything else was simply unthinkable.

He watched Moran pulling up his black boxers over the taut curves of his arse, his black cargoes over that, working his big, callused feet into socks and well-oiled tanker boots. He hadn’t bothered to take off his t-shirt, but as he slid his belt back into place he exposed a jagged scar that ran down one side of his back, bisecting the graceful line of his muscle. Moran’s movements were efficient, practical. There was a faint smile on his lips, but he was already shaking off the haze of afterglow and returning to the here and now, those confident hands as firm and steady as they’d ever been.

Jim, on the other hand, was still feeling a bit wrecked, and not just because he’d just taken rather more than his slim frame was really made for. This was transactional, just part of what he was paying the good Colonel for. It was easy and it felt oh so good.

“Suppose I’ll be off,” Sebastian muttered, inclining his strong neck to check the time. “Just let me know when you need me, Boss.”

And Jim couldn’t help himself, he was going to say something, but he could at least put a little style into it. He stretched his body out lasciviously on the couch where they’d just fucked, gazed up through his dark eyelashes. “Oh, lover, do stay a while. There’ll still be plenty of killing to do tomorrow.”

“Ha ha, very funny, Boss,” said the sniper, shrugging on the armored jacket he’d left on the coat rack, opening the door. And he left.

Jim hated everyone, except for this one man.

And it was killing him.


	12. Trick or Treat [twisted fluff]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little Halloween treat ficlet

Sebastian didn’t really have a sweet tooth, but he was a hell of a cook, and when Jim put ‘make a batch of dark chocolate truffles’ on his daily “honey-do” list he didn’t really question it; he’d been asked to do weirder things before.

When Jim came home, he paused to tease Seb about his apron, kiss him lasciviously, and pop one of the just-finished truffles into his mouth. His eyes fluttered shut for a second in pleasure.

“It almost seems a shame…” he said thoughtfully.

“Ah… what does?”

Jim pulled a small syringe and a vial of a clearish liquid out of his pocket. He worked meticulously, filling the syringe and injecting a tiny amount of poison into the first, then the second truffle before remembering to speak again. “Still, they’re so very professional… bastards will never see it coming.”


	13. come as a friend, as a known enemy [angst]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was just going to post my headcanon about why Jim got the model of John Watson's gun wrong in The Great Game, and then this fic happened. Title is from "Come As You Are" by Nirvana.

Jim never knew shit about guns.

Oh, I mean, he could fire one, technically. But your gram can probably turn on a computer and send you an animated card for your birthday (mine does; guess she never got the memo that I got disowned); doesn’t mean she knows what operating system it is.

So yeah. When I heard him mis-identify John Watson’s Sig Sauer in front of the Boy Scouts themselves, I cringed as much as I could get away with while holding a target. But it wasn’t like I expected better. I’d tried to sit him down and explain the basic features of one class of firearm or another a few times, attempting to make sure we were on the same page about required equipment for a job, or to leave hints about what I wanted for Christmas. It never took. To him guns were a mundane necessity like brushing one’s teeth, neither as subtle and intricate as poisons nor as theatrical as explosives. He hired other people to take care of those things.

Sometimes I wanted him to see what I saw, the simple sense of straight lines and angles, the way you can look at the world from above and always find an advantage, the maths of it. I thought he’d like that. But then God only knows I’d never want to see life the way he saw it, so I guess I was expecting too much.

I also always knew he had a death wish, on one level or another. When he joined me at a rooftop or high window he’d go right up to the ledge, to where you’d get dizzy if you looked down, and when he thought I wasn’t looking he’d always look down. He’d been willing on a couple of occasions to sacrifice everything for a big enough display of glamorous anarchy; the more I tried to stop him, the less he let me in. Last time I’d disobeyed a direct order and taken out a whole family of Camorrah thugs who’d been gunning for him. After that I’d been pretty sure that his next battle would be his last, because he’d leave me in the dark completely if that was what it took to get his way.

I suppose, though, that I’d just never thought he’d shoot himself. The pistol had been a gift from me and he’d barely ever used it, except to wave it around dramatically when the situation called for it. I’d thought that he’d semi-consciously walk into an ambush when I couldn’t be there to stop him, or set a whole building to explode with him and his enemies and probably me inside. It would never be poison; that was an undignified end that he called upon for people he hated, which was, well, a lot of people. I’d seen him falling in a dream once, over a cliff, limbs outstretched, not that dreams come into it.

Maybe he wanted to surprise me, to be unpredictable even to the one person who thought he knew him. Maybe that was his final fuck-you in a life that was bloody well full of them. As if leaving me to clear up a lifetime’s worth of loose ends wasn’t enough.

Or maybe there was some love in the gesture, in choosing a method that must have made him think of me, even though he couldn’t let me know what he was planning without me wrestling him into a goddamned straightjacket. Which I probably should have done years ago.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter now; whatever the means, the ends are the same. He’s gone, and I have my orders, and for all he knows from wherever his soul is I could just fuck off and start a new life… but I won’t. He knew I wouldn’t. And in the end he knew me better that I ever knew him.


End file.
